


the upper hand

by LT_Aldo_Raine



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Canon Compliant, Hand Jobs, Liebling, M/M, Masturbation, Public Masturbation, Teasing, World War II, name kink, webgott - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-11-01 07:41:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17863175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LT_Aldo_Raine/pseuds/LT_Aldo_Raine
Summary: The rustle of cheap fabric. The occasional low grunt. The inconsistency of frantic panting.--David knows instantly the source of the sound.OR: Web wakes one night in the Berchtesgaden to find Liebgott pleasing himself, and finally, Web has the upper hand for once.





	the upper hand

**Author's Note:**

> Just bought my tickets to the Band of Brothers film festival in Normandy for the 75th anniversary of D-Day, and I am *pumped!*

The dream is the same—is always the same—a bullet and blood, blood, blood that seemingly never ends, and he jerks awake gasping, the sound of whizzing mortar fire echoing in the deepest depths of his mind. His heart is racing. The room is dark, his eyes blinking furiously, partly a symptom of his anxiety, partly an attempt to adjust to the pitch blackness of the space. He is billeted with the rest of his platoon in some apartment above a tailor’s shop in the Berchtesgaden—a mess of makeshift beds on couches, kitchen tables, and, of course, the floor.

David Webster occupies the latter now, in the little space between the coffee table—atop which Babe Heffron is snoring soundly through his nose, mouth open—and the sofa—where Joseph Liebgott had quickly claimed his territory earlier that day. Heart thumping wildly in his chest from the repeated nightmare, it takes David several deep breaths for the blood to quit pumping in his ears, and in the silence that follows, he hears something else.

The rustle of cheap fabric. The occasional low grunt. The inconsistency of frantic panting, muffled though it is.

David knows instantly the source of the sound, and though he’s not completely inconvenienced—worst things have happened, and living with two hundred men in cramped spaces over such a prolonged period of time, this has certainly happened before—, the situation is still uncomfortable enough that David impertinently releases a sigh of annoyance.    

The sounds of desperation cease instantly and are followed by a shuffle above him and a familiar voice, deep and taut, “Jesus Christ, Web, just go the fuck to sleep.”

David cannot help but roll his eyes, even in darkness. “I was asleep, Joe.”

There’s a fierce but quiet curse. Then, “Can’t you just roll over or something?”

David snorts, but complies, shifting to face the legs of the coffee table and Heffron’s dangling arm. An awkward beat follows, one in which David waits, stiff, for the tell-tale noises to come, and yet, they don’t. Sighing once more, David nestles a hand under his head and clenches his eyes shut. “Go ahead, Joe.”

“ _Please_ stop saying my name.”  

David thinks that, perhaps, he should be offended, but mild amusement courses through him instead, and the tension his body has been holding for the last ten minutes—since the horrible dream (that’s really more than a dream; its an amalgamation of memories, reality distorted and repurposed for torture by the human psyche) and the bullet and the blood, blood, blood—, this tension is all at once released.

“Oh? Should I _stop_ saying your name, _Joe_?” he teases, equal parts smug and giddy at any ability he has to be the one with the upper hand for once. He studies the dark outline of Heffron’s limp, hanging arm as Liebgott replies, a whine low in the back of his throat as the sounds of shuffling fabric and slow thrusting resume, “Fuck, _Web_.”

The sound of his name—spoken not at all in the way he expected, not angrily, not annoyed, but _high_ , pinched with pleasure and pain from a man who has his own hand wrapped around his cock—goes straight to David’s stomach.

 _Goddamnit._ Leave it to Joe to still somehow fuck with him while he’s the one literally with his pants down. Its not fair. In an impish mood so petty and childish that he’ll feel foolish come daylight, David rolls back to lie flat against the floor, eyes on the ceiling, and murmurs, “Yes, Joseph?”

His only response is a stuttering breath and the wet slap of Joe’s fingers on his dick, presumably slick with pre-cum or spit. The silence—the lack of a witty comeback or caustic remark—is an invitation for David to continue, for him to taunt and tease for once. “Or maybe you don’t want me to call you ‘Joe.’ Tell me, would you prefer Liebgott? Or simply Lieb? _Meine Liebling_ …”

“Jesus— _fuck._ ” There comes a grunt as the sounds of Liebgott’s hand on his cock grow louder, sloppier, his impending orgasm building. “If you don’t shut the fuck up, Web,” he growls in warning, the threat of his words all but lost to the desperation that clings to them. “—I’m gonna make you put that goddamn mouth of yours to use.”

David is less than impressed. “Threating me by way of begging for my mouth on your cock? Weak, Liebling.” Liebgott is close to finishing. David can hear it in the shallowness of his breath, the frantic scratch of fabric, the relentless slap of slick skin on skin. As his eyes gradually adjust to the darkness, David spares a glance at the sofa. So close as they are, David can see the arch of Liebgott’s back coming off the couch cushions, can see the way his feet are barred on the far arm of the sofa, knees agape. Liebgott’s eyes are closed, teeth gritted as he pumps and pumps and pumps his dick inside a tight, angry fist.

If there were moonlight streaming in through the windows, David thinks faintly, he could probably see the sweat clinging to Liebgott’s brow or the shine of pre-cum twinkling on his cock, drizzling down from the split on its head.

Honestly, this has all gone on too long, and frankly, David just wants to get back to sleep. So, the young soldier props himself up on one elbow, bringing his face as level to Liebgott’s as he can get, and he addresses the other man, softly so as not to wake the others. “Joseph…Liebling, look at me.”

Wild and surprised eyes find David’s. Liebgott’s mouth parts in disbelief, his pupils blown wide with desire. Up close, David can see it—Liebgott’s release. Its just seconds away. He’s on the brink but incapable of taking himself there alone, so David reaches for him, drags the pad of his thumb over the pretty swell of Liebgott’s bottom lip, trails his fingers across the damp cotton of Liebgott’s sweat-drenched tee shirt, moves his hand towards Liebgott’s own, and wraps his fist around the same fist which is squeezing the life out of Liebgott’s stiff dick.

“Just fucking come already,” David demands as he gives a violent yank on Liebgott’s cock.

Naturally, Liebgott does.   


End file.
